


Bright Verona, lovely Verona

by Aki_of_Eyluvial



Category: Romeo & Juliet - Takarazuka Revue, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Light Supernatural Elements, M/M, Other, love described in colors, trying a more poetic style, well kinda. depends on how you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28590672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aki_of_Eyluvial/pseuds/Aki_of_Eyluvial
Summary: Blood runs in the square. It washes the light stones and seeps in the soil with tears and rain. It will make the foundation of Verona the day the city will fall to rise again, at the breaking of a new dawn, when no one but us will be left to remember these days of old.The story, many stories, through the eyes of those who linger in the shadows, unseen, and bend the fate of many to their will.A story of love through the stories of those who fell.
Relationships: Ai | Love/Shi | Death (Romeo et Juliette), Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague, Mercutio/Benvolio Montague, Mercutio/Tybalt (Romeo and Juliet)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: Romeo & Juliet / Romeo et Juliette Fanfic Exchange 2020





	Bright Verona, lovely Verona

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PotterHorseSpirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotterHorseSpirit/gifts).



We live to tell a story. When all else fails in the world, a story is what remains; a story is what reminds us that we lived, and we loved, and walked through danger and sadness and happiness and  _ life _ . 

Some stories are coated in black and white, hues made of past memories, unable to leave, unable to be let go, and let me tell you, these are not bad stories. They're short, perhaps, belonging to people who lived fast because the world was running, and running too fast, because the world was falling, with bombs from the sky and with fire and smoke. These are stories made of screams and tears and pain, but they're not bad, they're not as sad as you may think. 

I've seen some of them unfold, you know? And I cherished them in their shortness. Because these stories were full of love too. You would have liked them. If only you would have looked in the right direction at the right time.

~~~

Mercutio Escalus was familiar with death. With the idea of death, be it his or of someone he loved. He had been familiar with it since the day his brother died in the crib. He had been familiar with it since the day his parents left, or so people told him, words chosen carefully thinking he was too young to understand what death was, too young to understand they wouldn't come back. Mercutio Escalus was familiar with death as he crossed the vast halls of the palace in Verona, following his uncle on fast legs. He liked Verona. He liked his uncle too.  _ He liked his cousin a little less, but it wasn’t necessary for him to like the older boy, for soon he would leave the palace.  _ It wouldn't be long before he considered the place his new home. But Mercutio knew death and he smelled its sweet smell as soon as he walked the streets. He didn't shy away from it, too aware of how unstoppable it could be, too intoxicated by its smell, too curious to know more, and better.  _ Too curious for his own good _ , his uncle, the Prince, never forgot to remind him.

“And curiosity, Mercutio, is never wise. Not in Verona.”

~~~

Some stories are bright as the sun. Blinding, even. You're not much for blinding lights, aren't you? You shield yourself from them, squint your eyes and look away. 

You were like one of these bright stories to me, once. You-- oh, who I want to kid? You were each and every hue every story could take, and we danced through them, unstopped, unstoppable. What changed? What became of our sun-bright story? What became of  _ us?  _

~~~

Benvolio Montague faced Verona with hope. Undying hope, even when the sky began to crumble and fall on their heads. Not literally. Well, yes, literally too. It was hard to explain, most people around him couldn’t see it as clearly as he did.

In his youth he ran around the streets, chasing after his cousin, voices ringing with laughter and jokes under the sun. Then one day another boy joined them. His voice was louder but still ringing, his jokes darker and yet they laughed with him. 

Benvolio Montague didn't know the sun to be that warm and bright when he stepped in Verona and into the Montague house the first time. He'd heard of Verona from his mother, he heard of the city she left behind, when he was nothing more than a baby, when she fled after his father died. He heard of a Verona dark and coated in shadows stretching long through the streets, like ghostly hands reaching out and grasping unaware ankles, dragging the people deep, deep below the city where darkness and shadow thrived and danced and laughed. 

"A cursed city ruled by cursed families." She spit in a rage young Benvolio failed to understand, because he was too young and he lived under a bright sun. 

Verona, he discovered, was just as bright, maybe even brighter, even warmer; Benvolio wrote to his mother many times at first, he told her what happened, what he did, how he spent his days and how warm and clear the city was. She never answered his letters and little by little he stopped writing her. Still Verona was blinding, still his cousin was dragging him along, still their new friend was laughing through the days and the nights. Even when the night shadows dawned on their young heads everything was still lit, the shadows his mother warned him for so long seemed like a scary story to keep children in the house after sunset. Shadows were just that. Darker spots on cobbled streets from the houses, stretched long by the lanterns on the walls. No grabbing hands lurking in the small alleys, no wicked calls, hums from the dark calling their names to steal them forever. 

Mercutio laughed and Benvolio felt strings in his heart getting pulled, one after the other, he felt like he found somewhere he would belong to, someone that would understand him, someone that would see the world in the same way. 

_ He didn't.  _ But it was fine nonetheless. The world after all changed for every single one of them; no matter how well they could describe it it would never look the same.

~~~

Some stories change colors after a while. It's always amusing when it happens, right? They switch to a different hue, or change to a completely different color. You always had that gleam in your eyes when it happened,like you had something to do with the change. You never agreed to it, you never denied it either. You just smiled and my life changed hue together with the stories around us. It's unfair, my dear, how powerful you've always been. 

~~~

Benvolio ran and laughed, Romeo ran and dreamed. And Mercutio could only run after them, stretch his arm out, grasp at Benvolio's coat and slow his running so he could catch up with him. He prided himself to be a fast runner and yet he couldn't keep up, held back by a dreadful feeling he couldn't shake away. But if he couldn't go faster than all he had to do was make them go slower. Ever since he grabbed him something changed. Something in the way Verona looked changed. The streets looked bigger, the sun looked brighter, it felt warmer, voices rang loud and clear and untroubled. The wine ran in the nights and their laughter reduced to giggles as they roamed like Verona belonged to them and them alone.  _ Like they were kings _ . Kings of a world they had just began to discover.

The feeling remained, and everytime mercutio stopped it came back to him, aggressive and loud, overwhelming, threatening to drown him. 

Benvolio never told them of the stories his mother told him when he was a child, he never mentioned the shadows with clawed hands taking people. And so Mercutio never mentioned the figure he saw in the corner of his eye when he wasn't really watching. Dark and tall, staring at them from behind every alley and every window, the shadow stalking him in the many halls of the palace, hiding in his closet and under his bed. He wasn't a kid, and he didn't believe in monsters, but there was a shadow following them,  _ him _ , and he knew what it was. He had been familiar with it for a long, long time. 

~~~

"You're going to scare them one of these days." But you always laughed at my words, at my worries, and I-- I melted away and let you stalk in the shadows the youths of Verona. 

Some stories burn, like fire. I've always liked these stories, they're real, and painful, and still so full of life and will. They shine of a vermillion red like beacons in the night. 

"No beacon shines red." Your voice reprimanded me once, but some of them do. I'll show you them one day, when you'll take my hand and let me be the guide for once. 

Some stories shine red and are coated in  _ blood.  _ But not for that they’re bad or sad. They’re just…  _ Lonely. _

~~~

Tybalt Capulet took a long time getting ready, everytime, even when little Juliet was scrambling around him muttering in his ear that they were late already and she wouldn't find her favorite sweets in the market anymore, because they were the best sweets ever and they sell too fast,  _ and they were late _ . Not knowing the baker always put a little bag hidden under her table, with Juliet's name written in red ink. 

These were the days tybalt liked, when he ran late, when his beloved little cousin dragged him down the crowded streets of the market, when her voice chirped like the little bird she was, draped in a soft pink, innocent and pure, untouched by any shadow that crawled in the city. 

Tybalt smiled at the shadow instead, and sometimes the shadows smiled back at him. 

It started… Tybalt didn't remember when it started or why, he knew that Verona was different from every other city; it was a knowledge he couldn't easily explain, or explain at all, he simply knew and he moved on, uncaring.  _ He cared, in truth, but he learned not to show it. _

Living in the Capulet household wasn't easy; he wondered many times, many nights, what it would have been like if he wasn't born with a name heavier than he was.  _ What Juliet's life would have been if she was born somewhere else.  _ That was, during those sleepless nights, when he acknowledged the shadows. 

~~~

"You're going to scare him." You always said, I smiled and moved closer, he was so similar to me. Perhaps he could understand. You didn’t scare those you followed, why should I? But we were so different, you and I.  _ And he was different from them. _

~~~

Tybalt felt like he should be scared, the logical side of him screamed at him to be scared, not to trust the shadowy figure in the corner. But what does a ten years old know of what is logical and what is not? Instead Tybalt sat cross legged on his bed and cocked his head. 

"Are you going to keep me company? -  _ He asked, and the shadow blinked. Was he talking to them? Directly? -  _ I could use some company." And he smiled. The shadow blinked again, confused.  _ Them?  _

"Ah... You're shy. -  _ Tybalt chuckled leaving the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. How old was he, not to be scared? To be so bold and unafraid. No, that wasn’t the right question. How young was he, to see them so clearly and still want to get close? -  _ It's fine, you don't have to come out, I'll come keep  _ you _ company there, then." And with that he walked in the corner and the shadows spread, stretching longer around the unafraid boy who willingly stepped into them.

The shadow found out, faster than expected, that Tybalt wasn't scared because a greater shadow stalked the halls of that house, and it was a living one. How could he be scared of them when he lived there all these years? So the shadow put a red oil lamp in his hands, a lamp made of shadows too, a red beacon that only Tybalt could see, a thread to follow when he lost the way. Tybalt, little Tybalt, hugged the lamp close to his chest and tight, he held on that red beacon when lessons of hate flowed throught the air and seeped in his bones, growing with him. 

~~~

"You're getting soft."  _ Oh, am I?  _ Perhaps, perhaps I am. But I've learned from the best, all these years looking at you, all these years following your lead, trying to fix the mistakes you made along the way. 

Humans, I've learned, are so quick to lay the blame on each other and on the wrong side, they're quick to believe they're the one always right and those opposing them are always wrong. 

Humans are quick to believe in you and let you take they're hands and guide them, I know it because I did the very same. I can't blame them after all, your call is unstoppable, but please,  _ please,  _ be careful. 

"But my dear, I've done nothing wrong." 

_ No, no you're right. You didn't. You-- _

~~~

A boy meets a girl. 

That's the most ancient tale of the universe. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, they live happily ever after in a world coated in pink hues and warmth. 

Juliet was young, she liked all the romantic stories she stole from the library and read huddled in the safety of her cousin's chamber; no one would look for her there, and even if they would, Tybalt would cover for her as he always did. So she climbed on his bed with her new book and she dreamed to be the princess of all those stories. She dreamed and sighed, the book held in careful white hands. 

"You don't need a prince to save you." Tybalt told her. There were golden beads here and there in his hair, gold and red always suited him more than they did to her, there was some sort of royal elegance in the way fabric fell on him; there was elegance, Juliet knew, in the way his sword moved too. 

"You can take your chance and save yourself." 

"But I'm a girl. How am I supposed--" 

"You're a Capulet. -  _ Tybalt turned and smiled. -  _ Anything you wish to do, you can do it."  _ And if you could save me too, as you run away… I would followyou, my beloved cousin, just-- Just take me with you.  _ But he never dared to ask, for he knew, deep down, she would let him.  _ Love is weird. _

A girl meets a boy. It's the same story over and over. The kind of story that never gets old, not really, not for dreamers. And so dreamers dream, and in their dreams they find freedom. 

Romeo, born and raised in one of the most powerful families of Verona, was everything a Montague wasn't. Or so people said. He was soft, and kind, and caring. He dreamed big dreams and left no place for hate in his mind. Perhaps that could be the end of the feud that drenched Verona's streets for decades, perhaps his good heart would conquer the peace the city desperately needed. Or so he hoped; so he dreamed, so he told his cousin and best friend. 

"Romeo, romeo. Your dreams will bury you in a pile of ashes." 

But he scoffed with a smile at mercutio's words and kept on dreaming. 

~~~

Some stories share a color not because they merge into each other but because they're meant to be. These were always your favorite stories, right? 

_ Stop _ , stop smiling like that. You make everything so much harder for me. I'm trying to save them, you know? Save them so I can have these smiles only for myself once again. 

_ Turn around, look at me again.  _

I really am trying to help them, how can't you see? 

~~~

Sometimes a boy meets another boy. Sometimes a boy doesn't want to settle on one alone. Sometimes--

Benvolio was sweet, and kind. He was soft and Mercutio nestled in his arms and let them close around him, as if he could protect him from everything. Protect him from the figure moving on light feet in the empty halls of a too big palace for their so little family. 

Benvolio could sweep away every shadow and make him live in a bright world until they both grew old and wrinkled. Benvolio could do that, and much more and Mercutio wanted it. He wanted to give in to these desires, he wanted to be at peace, to stop his mind from wandering away on merciless seas like a little boat on too tall waves. Benvolio could stop the waves from turning into claws and drown him.  _ He could. _

But Mercutio was restless and curious. He stopped sometimes and turned to look at the stalking figure, never catching more than a fleeting form escaping from his sight. 

Once, he turned and the figure danced away as always, but he caught something else.  _ Someone else.  _ There was a boy in the spot the figure left, a boy who turned and stared back at him. Mercutio almost asked if he too had seen the shadow disappear, he must have seen it, because he was standing right there. But he said nothing and moved toward him. They collided, their stories merged, and mingled in a weird shade of colors, pulled together and apart at the same time. Two forces fighting for power over the other and them, two boys so different and so alike, used as puppets. 

But as they crashed on each other, the boy and the girl changed the course of fate. 

~~~

You laugh, in the darkness of Verona you laugh and bring the sun. Stop for once, this is not the city for a tale such as this to unfold. Hate runs too deep in the root of this city, it runs in the water and in the cobbled streets, it runs up to the walls and into chambers where lovers meet.  _ Stop, just this once.  _

"You forbid love to change their souls." 

"They will die of love." 

" _ For love. They will die for love."  _ And so you smile again and your hands pull the two young souls together, and their hands touch. And so the story begins, and repeats. The story you love so much.  _ The story that could be ours. _

~~~

Blood runs in the square. It washes the light stones and seeps in the soil with tears and rain. It will make the foundation of Verona the day the city will fall to rise again, at the breaking of a new dawn, when no one but us will be left to remember these days of old. When no one but us will know the truth behind the great tragedy that shook the city to its core, that claimed lives upon lives, youths before their real story could begin. The truth of how colors merged until nothing else was left but a pale sun-bright story fading in grief for lost lovers and friends. 

Verona changed, that fateful day. And it changed the day that followed, and the day after again. Bright Verona, lovely Verona. Drowned in the blood of those who for loyalty and honor and love tried to fight what fate laid upon their heads at birth. 

And still you smile, watching two lovers rise from the ashes of an ancient hate and dance in a new world, a world only for them and their love. A world they build from the mistakes of a pure hand and the tries of a forceful one.

You smile and finally turn to the shadows that stalk the lonely alleys, the shadows that with clawed hands grasps unaware lost souls. You smile and take my hand. And it's not a shadow anymore. 

"Show me. Show me your favorite story, now." 

_ But I do not have a favorite.  _ And you laugh, because everyone has a favorite and we have all eternity before us.

"Make one, then. -  _ You say, like a promise, like a wish. -  _ Make one with me." 

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are.  
> I wish I could say i'm really really proud and satisfied but eh... not completely. Not on my part at least. But I really hope you liked it and that it fit your requests.  
> I tried to keep vague who's speaking in between but I'm not sure I made it vague enough, well, that's not important, it's they're story, I let them speak what they wanted. (seriously, Shi can be quite talkative in the right mood. Excpet the mood came one week before the end of the month. Not helpful.)  
> I tried to keep any supernatural element to the minimum, just the shadows being alive (and kinda creepy sometimes), Hope you didn't mind that inclusion.  
> Also, the lack of dialogues. I'm sorry. I forgot how to write dialogues and I'm really deep into introspective parts, which ends up being quite poetic but still lacking for the sake of a better fic.
> 
> For you, who arrived to the end of it, I hope you've enjoyed this little travel we took together. I for sure have enjoyed putting their story into words.
> 
> Thanks for reading~  
> Phanie


End file.
